a private diary is the 'given' minimum for any superreal fidelio narrative just as you'll hardly grudge blairites of any 'local' colour, ingoing or outgoing, one last percussive hate-crime at smokers. the new mockney century, however, of infanticidal tax-collectors, permanent caste, slavery and euthanasia industry among rich verbotens like limp tepid autumn decidiates, the lunch-room air of non-friends would take the momentum of oliver twist to the PLO vacancies page.

opting for 'low-skill' shows me up as the pathological pacifist harangued into a default dialectic regarding 'spike' milligan, harry secombe, tony benn, or harold zinn or duke ellington's orchestra, as they maximised their death quotient in the last struggle between humans and nazis. the two-sided coin is how i'm forced to pay billions for others to defend civilisation, while i wait year on year for the fortune they've always promised me with a baccy pouch and a cheryl blair dartboard.

'nemimica couverture' features the first music i learned to play as a boy in the 1970s, in the era of tony visconti, erich segal, joni mitchell and 'the pink panther'. the composers are almost 'trad.'. the performers, singularly revered by me, are strand or savoy hotel-staff, or arkansas tourist board, or all approaching 'domain'; but the janus stagnation of broadcast culture shows them off like gautama's best tuxedo garden furniture. and while 'twee' is probably a word tweedledee bans next month, the lynchian world of the only judy garland so far, vera lynn, joe meek and picnic prevention got revised long before the i.l.e.a.